


leave with the tide

by poseidon



Series: take me home [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, M/M, Minor James Bond/Madeleine Swann, Minor James Bond/Original Character(s), Post-SPECTRE, Soul-Searching, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:57:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poseidon/pseuds/poseidon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It never ends with driving off into the distance in a beautiful car with a beautiful girl beside you. Bond knows that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leave with the tide

It never ends with driving off into the distance in a beautiful car with a beautiful girl beside you. Bond knows that.

He drives to the nearest hotel once the old MI6 ruins have disappeared into the background and they barely make it into the room before his hands are sliding under her dress and hers are cupping his jaw as she kisses him.

They haven’t even made it to the bed by the time his trousers are pooled at his ankles, quickly followed by his pants.

It’s slow, hot, _passionate_ – and yet he can’t shake away a certain feeling prickling in the back of his mind, trying to press forward, make itself known. He doesn’t know what it is, and he doesn’t want to know.

He takes a deep breath and sucks a bruise on the side of her neck, trailing kisses down her body, feeling her soft skin move under his lips, as he tries to lose himself in the moment.

It’s easy. It always is.

* * *

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, and he wakes up to a dark room and an empty bed. There’s no note, no lingering warmth, just the keys to the car sitting right beside the clock on the bedside table. Of course she’d left. She’d said she was going and she’d told him why. No need for extra exposition.

Bond slowly sits up and lets out a heavy sigh. He stays like that for a few moments, listening to the nightlife outside coming in through the closed window, loud and muffled.

He gets up, showers, and checks out of the hotel thirty minutes later.

* * *

He knows he doesn’t want to stay in England. It’s too close to home, too easy to go back and slip into the same old lifestyle – day in, day out, blood on his hands, alcohol on his breath, a kiss on his lips. It’s been that way for so long, right up until he’d gotten shot, that he doesn’t really remember a time before it.

Well, he does, but that was a long time ago. Such a long time ago. He might as well have been a different person back then.

A vacation. That’s what he needs. Not a ‘vacation’ like Mexico – a real one, where he isn’t running on rooftops and chasing after terrorists and flying a helicopter (although he wouldn’t mind doing the last one since it was rather fun).

“I deserve it,” he says to himself and starts driving a little faster. He flicks on the ‘Atmosphere’, just to see if it’s been properly set to him.

It has, and he smiles a little.

* * *

He drives into France, taking a short nap when he goes through the Eurotunnel and not stopping until he decides he should have a real destination instead of just ‘somewhere in France’.

He gets on the _Autoroute_ and pockets the ticket before continuing onward. It’s a little strange having a car that hasn’t blown up yet. When was the last time he’d ever refueled a tank?

“I’ll figure it out,” he assures himself and drives on, wondering if he’d brought some cash with him when he’d hurriedly packed earlier that day.

* * *

He stops at a _station d’essence_ when he sees he’s running out of fuel and decides to head into one of the restaurants _. If I’m going to be on some sort of a road trip, I might as well commit to the eating style too_ , he reasons as he steps up to the first one he sees.

And that is how Bond – who hasn’t eaten at a restaurant with a waiting list of less than six months, who doesn’t know how to operate a chip-and-pin machine, whose suit is more expensive than the net worth of anyone in the vicinity – finds himself sitting in his car and eating a “Smart Poulet”.

It’s not that bad, actually.

* * *

It’s when he finds himself suddenly off the _Autoroute_ and driving into a city (town? village? something like that) that he realizes he’s been trailing the car in front of him for the past hour or so.

Old habits seem to die harder than he’d thought – what’s next, shooting the driver? (Hopefully not. This is supposed to be a vacation and killing people isn’t exactly relaxing. )

(Is it?)

He makes sure not to pull into the same hotel as them, at least, instead heading for the next one and barely pausing to shed his clothes before collapsing in bed.

 _This is going to be one long vacation_ , he thinks, before drifting off.

* * *

When he wakes up, he pulls out his phone and learns he’s in Étretat, a “tourist and farming town” according to Wikipedia.

Has he ever used Wikipedia? He doesn’t think so – usually Q does all his research for him. Q would probably be able to plan this whole vacation for him as well, with all sorts of amenities. If he’d asked.

Or, M would use Q to bring Bond back, and that would be the end of it.

Maybe they can already find him – Q wouldn’t just abandon his Smart Blood just like that. Or would he?

Or, maybe, they just don’t care where he is.

Bond shuts off his phone and throws it in the trash. Later, when he’s buying some casual clothes, he buys a map as well. Just in case.

* * *

He goes sightseeing on the second day because apparently, there’s some pretty scenery to look at and everyone wants to take a picture of it.

The “Falaise d'Etretat”, as he heard someone call it, was quite nice. He walks around the hill with a group of people and stares out at the beach, waves crashing against the rocky shore in a soothing way that could lull one to sleep.

He stays in the area for a few more days, hiking on the trails and sitting by the beach late at night. He almost regrets throwing his phone away because Moneypenny would’ve been jealous that _he_ got to go on vacation when _she’d_ been requesting time off for _ages_.

He wonders how she is, where she thinks he is, whether she thinks he’s coming back or not.

(He is, isn’t he?)

* * *

On the last day, he buys a postcard and a pen, and spends an hour sitting in his room and staring at them before shoving them into his newly-bought duffle bag and checking out.

* * *

He decides he wants to go to Paris, because that’s what a tourist would do, but after six hours of driving and finding Bordeaux instead of Paris, he starts to think that maybe it was a bad idea disabling the GPS system on the car.

 _Just maybe_ , he thinks as he searches for a good hotel. _Just maybe._

* * *

He does, eventually, get a phone. Though it’s not in a way one would classify as ‘legal’, unless one followed the rule of ‘finders-keepers’. And find the phone James did, in the back pocket of some white-collar executive who had a bit too much to drink and was now loudly (and badly) flirting with some woman sitting beside him.

“What do you want to drink?” the bartender asks, first in English, then in French, as he sits down.

Bond opens his mouth to order, hesitates a moment, and finds himself saying, “Whiskey. On the rocks.” It’s a vacation, and vodka martinis get a bit boring after a while.

And if he brings a woman with him to his hotel room, well, the vacation was getting a little boring anyway.

It’s much more enjoyable to be between a woman’s thighs and suck on her clit than it is to sit in a car – even if it is an Aston Martin –  for god knows how long, only to wind up in the wrong fucking city.

And he used to be excellent at reading maps.

* * *

He dreams of Oberhauser, his eye dripping with blood like Le Chiffre's did, and he watches the blood fall from his face and down to Madeleine's.

She's not crying, not moving, just staring silently as the bomb ticks away beside her.

He can't move forward to save her, can't speak to tell her to run.

And she stares at him as her face is ripped apart.

* * *

He opens his eyes and quietly gets up from the bed, trying not to wake his companion as he heads to the bathroom.

He splashes water on his face and looks into the mirror.

How long has it been since he left London? He doesn’t know.

“James?” the woman mumbles as he slides back into bed – he forgot her name already. ( _A little rude, don’t you think?_ a part of his brain nags at him, and he pushes it back.)

“Just needed to use the restroom,” he hums in response, pulling her close. “Go back to sleep.”

She scoffs at the suggestion and climbs on top of him, and he lets out a chuckle against her lips.

* * *

The executive eventually clears the data from the phone remotely, leaving Bond with a glorified tablet that can go on the internet but can’t make calls.

“At least I got it for free,” he says as he shoves it into his pocket (jeans, bought recently, a little tight around the arse but he’s not complaining) before sifting through his luggage to find a clean shirt.

He finds the postcard and pen first and, after a moment’s consideration, places them on the desk and leaves.

* * *

He decides to stay in Bordeaux for a few days because why not? It took him ages to get here and there are plenty of things to do. Much more exciting than where he first ended up, certainly.

He goes on a dinner cruise with rather good food, excellent entertainment (and yes, he is talking about the sex he had with one of the waiters in the bathroom - he was young and eager and left a few colorful hickeys on the nape of Bond's neck that he thinks will take a while to heal), and a rather nice view of the city.

He takes a picture of it on his phone though he's not sure what to do with it.

The wine tour was entertaining as well, considering how flirty the tour guide was and how vocal she was in bed later that evening with her legs wrapped around him as he presses into her again and again.

He ends up going to a nightclub one night, just to see what it was like, but there's obscenely loud music, flashing lights, and a rather upsetting array of drinks. He ends up leaving and spends the night at the hotel bar.

* * *

Most of the time, he just walks around the city and tries to look like a normal person and not a secret agent with a license to kill.

It's incredibly difficult.

Usually, it's just fending off creepy old men prying on young women in bars (he might have a large age gap but at least it's all consensual), but sometimes it ends up narrowly avoiding murder charges after beating up an incredibly rude gang of boys in a back alley.

When he finds himself chasing a mugger five blocks in order to recover a stolen purse, he thinks it might be time to head to a new city.

He returns to the hotel room and sits down on the chair and looks down at the postcard. He’d almost forgotten he’d put it there.

He picks up the pen and clicks it. It’s not that hard deciding who to write one to – he doesn’t know where Madeleine is, he’s forgotten Moneypenny’s address, Tanner is too close to M, and M – well, just imagining M receiving a postcard with him from a beautiful and relaxing with the tagline ‘Wish You Were Here’ might result in the end of his career as 007.

Besides, he told Q he would write.

* * *

_~~Dear Q,~~ _

_~~Q, hello.~~ _

_~~Hello, Q.~~ _

_~~Q, how are you? Cats fed and mortgage payed?~~ _

_~~Q, I need a new car.~~ _

_~~Hello, Q. Do you have any vacation homes?~~ _

_~~Are you looking for me? Have you found me yet?~~ _

* * *

He goes down to the gift shop and buys a new postcard.

* * *

_Q,_

_Madeleine left. I’ve been on an absurd road trip since then._  
_The car hasn’t gotten destroyed yet, and I hope to bring it back in one piece. For once._  
_~~Let everyone know I fully intend to return~~. Give Moneypenny, Tanner, and all the others my love, as well as your two cats._

_Bond_

* * *

He mails the letter with no return address and leaves the city early the next day.

* * *

Driving in Paris feels a lot like driving around like he usually does – high speeds, crazy swerves, intense maneuvering – except now, everyone else is doing it too.

His flight leaves the next morning, in the early hours of dawn, so there's no point in staying at a hotel when he can stay awake all night and walk aimlessly, as he's done almost everywhere he's been.

The "road trip" plan didn't seem to pan through. It worked well enough in the beginning - purposeless travelling, going to villages or historical sites and not having them blow up - except one day it stopped.

He started getting antsy, unsettled, waiting for something to happen. His hands twitched at every odd look, every suspicious glance. He found himself waiting for phone calls that wouldn't come, scanning the crowds of travelers for a familiar face.

But the part that made him leave was when he started seeing Oberhauser everywhere he went.

It's behind every innocent look, his malicious smile. Behind his eyes and in his dreams, bleeding, grinning, taunting him.

_Cuckoo, James. You were always a cuckoo. Kill or be killed. A murderer. That's what you are. Nothing can change that._

He was getting bored of France anyway.

* * *

He leaves the car parked at the airport, keys in the ignition, and hopes that MI6 will eventually find it. He did make a note of the coordinates, just in case.

It's a very nice car. Shouldn't be left alone - or worse, taken by someone who won't appreciate it.

He walks by a souvenir store, hesitates, and buys a postcard.

In the layover at Pointe-à-Pitre, he mails it to Q, with the coordinates.

* * *

Barbados is no better than France, in the end.

He has a nice house on the beach, close to a small town. It's calm, peaceful, and dreadful.

He stays for a while, though, because calm and relaxing had worked before Skyfall, during that time when everyone thought he was dead and gone.

It doesn't work at all now.

He can't figure out why.

Some nights, he thinks of M - his M, Mansfield, not Mallory - and how she'd died in his arms.

They always die, the ones he loves.

Maybe that's why he doesn't fall in love. (Until he does. Until it sneaks up on him, until he suddenly realizes he can't go on without them. Until they're taken away from him. Until they look him in the eye so he can watch them fade away.)

* * *

She wouldn't have wanted him to wither away alone, he thinks, lying in bed one night.

And that's it, isn't it? He's alone. No amount of drinks or lovers keeping him company through the night could compare to being with someone. Someone who knows him.

He might be homesick.

* * *

_Q,_

_~~I miss~~ _

_~~I want to~~ _

_~~I~~ _

_A word of advice – vacations are overrated._

_Bond_

* * *

He spends one night in a half-empty bar, chatting up a lovely young woman. She flirts easily, with pretty smiles and fluttering lashes and when she casually puts her hand on his thigh, he asks her, “Where’s somewhere you’ve always wanted to go, during the holidays?”

She blinks, before quickly recovering and taking a sip from her drink. “I don’t know, really. New York always seemed nice, with the whole New Year’s celebration.”

“I see,” Bond replies with a hum as he pulls out his phone. “And why haven’t you gone before?”

She shrugs. “I guess I’ve been busy.”

“Are you busy now?” he asks, looking up at her.

She looks back, a smile playing on her lips. “No, I guess not.”

* * *

They go their separate ways when they land at JFK, even though she invites him to stay with her. “It’ll be fun,” she insists.

Bonds shakes his head, makes up an excuse, and kisses her cheek before leaving.

He’s already forgot her name, and she (eventually) forgets him.

* * *

Christmas Eve, he mails Q a letter ( _Merry Christmas_ ), and rents a PO Box as a return address.

Christmas Day, he spends alone in his hotel room and watches the snow fall outside, and thinks about the last time he had a white Christmas.

(It was a long while ago.)

* * *

New Year's Eve, he tries to be a little more festive. He goes out, celebrating with the throngs of people, and it's all fun and games except.

It isn't what he wants.

He ends up going back to his hotel room and watches the countdown on the TV, the screams and shouts coming from both outside and inside.

* * *

He checks the PO Box the moment he can, half hoping there is something but expecting nothing.

He finds a package.

It's small with brown wrapping and a tapped-on address. The return address is Q's flat.

(He knows this because he'd looked it up when Q told him he had a mortgage to pay for and he didn't actually believe him at first. The cats, he still hasn't seen, but the way 004 sneezes every time she's with Q is evidence enough.)

He walks back to the hotel, sits at the desk, and opens the package.

It's a phone and a card. The message is handwritten, and Bond imagines Q sitting at his desk, pulling out a pen and scribbling it down out of sight of anyone else, before folding it up and sending it, miles away, to him.

 _Happy New Year_ , it says.

Bond smiles, a little, and turns on the phone.

* * *

_[From: Q]_  
_We found the car, by the way._

 _[To: Q]_  
_Excellent. Who’s using it now?_

 _[From: Q]_  
_That’s really the first thing you want to ask?_  
_You’ve been gone for months, and that’s the first thing you want to know??_

 _[To: Q]_  
_Well, you started off with about the car._  
_Did you miss [Message unsent]_  
_And I can’t ask about anything work-related. I’m on vacation._

 _[From: Q]_  
_If I seem to recall, you said vacations are “overrated”_  
_Also, Moneypenny wants to know if you’ll be bringing back souvenirs because you missed Christmas._

 _[To: Q]_  
_Tell her I’ll bring back something for everyone, don’t worry._

 _[From: Q]_  
_And when exactly will you be back?_

 _[To: Q]_  
_I don’t know [Message unsent]_  
_Soon._

* * *

Bond ends up staying in New York City for a little while longer than he’d originally intended. He does what he did in France: walk around like a tourist and enjoy the sights. Except he doesn’t really enjoy them – nothing that hasn’t been shown repeatedly in every single movie taking place in New York.

But he goes around anyway – and no, it’s not because Q started asking where he’d gone and what he was doing and if he was having fun ( _Why can’t you come check on me yourself?_ Bond had asked and Q had replied, _Well, I don’t get that many vacation days and I don’t fly_ , so Bond found himself going to the Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty, taking pictures to make it look like he was having a nice time) – he goes around because he’s bored. That’s it.

He tries not to think about it.

* * *

_[To: Q]_  
_Where’s somewhere you’ve always wanted to go?_

 _[From: Q]_  
_Bond, it’s the middle of the night here._

 _[To: Q]_  
_Were you sleeping?_

 _[From: Q]_  
_Well I was going to, eventually._

 _[To: Q]_  
_Of course you were._  
_Back to my question._

 _[From: Q]_  
_Honestly, I don’t know._

 _[To: Q]_  
_There’s nowhere you’ve ever wanted to be but your fear of flying prohibited you from doing so?_  
_By the way, when I get back, we are going to cure you of your fear_

 _[From: Q]_  
_Not exactly._  
_Well, there was when you were going to Shanghai and I could’ve gone but Moneypenny went instead._  
_Also, please don’t. I’m afraid to find out what you’ll try to do_

 _[To: Q]_  
_Don’t worry, you won’t get hurt_  
_badly_

 _[From: Q]_  
_That’s not very reassuring…_

* * *

He sends Q a picture of the view from his hotel room when he lands at around one in the morning, and Q’s reply comes almost immediately.

 _[From: Q]_  
_What are you doing still awake?_

 _[To: Q]_  
_Are you busy?_

 _[From: Q]_  
_I’m at work_  
_But no, not really_

Bond calls him and says, "What do you want to see?"

There's a brief silence. "... Do you really expect to go out at one in the morning and take pictures of the Pearl Tower?" Q huffs.

Bond imagines him sitting at his desk, drinking tea from his mug. "It's not a bad idea. Pearl Tower, did you say?"

"I'm sure it looks better in the light of day," Q says. "Or at least, the light of not-in-the-middle-of-the-night."

"How would you know?"

"Google Earth. Just as useful as a vacationing secret agent who loves sending you pictures of himself with various backdrops when you're supposed to be working."

" _You're_ the one who wanted to see if I could get pictures of the hotel from _Léon the Professional_."

Q scoffs. "I still can't _believe_ you haven't seen it."

"I have plenty of time," Bond says, unable to resist a smile as he sits down on the bed. "Especially since you apparently don't want me to go out and take pictures for you."

"You’re the one who started it with the selfie from the Statue of Liberty," Q retorts quickly. His sigh is static in Bond's ear as he asks, "Why did you call, really?"

"I can't sleep," Bond says, and it's the truth. "Did enough of that on the plane ride."

Q lets out a groan. "I don't understand how people can sleep on planes - it's too..."

"Terrifying?" Bond suggests with a slight chuckle.

"I'm going to hang up now."

Bond laughs. "No, no, I'm sorry," he says as he lies back. "Flying isn't fun for you. Mind if I ask why?"

Q takes a sip from his drink and Bond hears it gently thud down on a surface. "It's, well, terrifying, to be trapped in a giant metal tube hundreds of miles above the Earth with so many things that could go wrong... And the crying babies."

"Yes, can't forget those," Bond says, though his tone is soft.

"It's hard not to," Q says. "I'm sure you've never had to deal with something like that."

"Maybe not crying babies but certainly some other stressful things, planes included."

"Ah yes, I heard about Miami."

"It was quite eventful," Bond insists with a slight smile. "One of my first operations after becoming a double-0. I'm sure you've read all about it in my file."

"On the contrary. When I joined MI6, you were 'dead', remember?"

Bond raises a brow. "And you didn't even when I came back?"

"Never got around to it... Maybe I could do that now," Q muses.

"Oh, don't bother with that," Bond sits up quickly. "Not when I'm here to tell it to you."

"Is it long?" Q asks. "I'm the only one of the two of us who is working, remember."

"I'll try to keep it brief," Bond promises. He clears his throat and recounts the story, listening to Q quietly typing on the computer, and it feels. Nice.

* * *

Bond sleeps most of the next morning and spent the afternoon going to different sights, taking pictures and sending them to Q. He doesn’t pay much attention to what he’s taking pictures of – some buildings, a tower, a museum, some skyline – but he does know that Q appreciates them. Or so he can figure from their nightly calls.

He finds himself looking forward to them more and more, anticipating those evenings where he’ll sit in bed and look out the open window while miles away, Q types on his laptop and drops vague hints about what’s going on back home.

What he’s gathered so far is that M has approved of his vacation but the next time he sees Bond, “he’d better have the damn mission report, or else.” Moneypenny seems to have not one but _two_ lovers that Bond had no idea about, and she wants him to know that the three of them will be looting his wine cellar if he doesn’t come back soon.

“Would you mind stashing my wine in your flat?” Bond asks.

“I’d rather not face her wrath,” Q hums. “ _She’s_ close enough to make my life a nightmare.”

Q does that a lot – vaguely mention how far away Bond is – and Bond has no idea why. He’s about to ask when he hears him hiss and mutter, “Oh, _shit_.”

“What’s wrong?” Bond sits up quickly.

“Nothing, it’s just – I spilled tea on my new jumper. It doesn’t even have cat hair on it yet,” Q sighs.

“It was only a matter of time before the cats would get to it,” Bond says, lips quirking slightly. “What are their names, by the way?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Indulge me,” Bond says. He thinks he can hear Q roll his eyes as he responds.

“Well, one’s name is Tesla – after the scientist.”

“I know who Tesla is, Q. And the other?”

Q hesitates, just a moment, before saying, “Harrison.”

“Harrison,” Bond repeats. “Do you mean to say you named one of your cats after –”

“After Harrison Ford, yes,” Q sighs. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” Bond says but he doesn’t stop grinning.  “ _Harrison Ford_?”

“He was very important to me in my formative years,” Q responds with a slight huff. “I spent a lot of time watching his films, looking up pictures of him young – wait, why am I telling you this?”

“Because you like me,” Bond chuckles softly. He imagines young Q, tall, lanky, glasses dangling off the edge of his nose as he sits at home watching reruns of _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. “You weren’t even alive during his golden years. How old are you?”

“I’m not telling you how old I am,” Q says firmly.

“Oh, why not? I’ll tell you how old I am.”

“I can just look that up in your file.”

“That’s not fair – that’s cheating.”

“It’s not cheating; it’s called ‘using your resources wisely’.”

“Of _course_ it is,” Bond rolls his eyes. He’s still smiling.

* * *

Moneypenny calls him out of the blue, a few days later.

“To what do I owe this wonderful surprise?” Bond asks, sitting at a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant with chopsticks in hand.

“ _Someone’s_ moved all the liquor from your flat,” she responds.

“Oh, really?” he says.

“You don’t sound surprised,” she points out.

“Believe me, I am _very_ surprised,” he assures her. “So, tell me all about this Rashid and Meg you’ve been spending all your time with.”

Moneypenny chuckles softly and starts talking.

* * *

_[From: Q]_  
_006 wants to throw a party when you return_  
_What date should we set?_

 _[To: Q]_  
_Soon [Message unsent]_  
_I don’t know_

 _[From: Q]_  
_Still?_  
_Do you even plan on coming back?_

 _[To: Q]_  
_I don’t know_  
_I’m sorry [Message unsent]_

* * *

Bond goes to Tokyo, because Shanghai starts to make him feel uneasy, unwell, for reasons completely unrelated to the fact that Q hasn’t contacted him in a few days. Nothing at all. He just need a change in pace.

He walks into a restaurant, gets seated at a table, and has just looked up from the menu when he sees Tanner’s face a few feet away, and his blood runs cold.

Tanner hasn’t spotted him yet, and judging by the back of the head of the man he’s with, it’s a _very_ good thing because it seems he’s having dinner with M.

Just his luck, Bond thinks. He could be in any city in the world, any restaurant in the city, and he just so happened to be in the same one as them.

He orders wine and watches their table, inconspicuous as ever, and only inclines his glass when Tanner’s gaze meets his. Tanner, to his benefit, barely reacts and goes right back to his conversation, but when M gets up a few moments later, he quickly gestures Bond over.

“Tanner, lovely to see you here,” Bond greets cheerfully. “And if you’re wondering, no, I haven’t finished that mission report yet.”

Tanner gives him a look and Bond realizes that he might’ve actually missed him a little too.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks.

“Vacationing,” Bond replies. “What are you two doing here?”

“Cleaning shit up after that clusterfuck with Nine Eyes and C,” Tanner sighs. He picks up his glass and drains it. “It’s been exhausting.”

Bond nods sympathetically. “I’m sure it has.”

Tanner stays silent for a moment. “There’s something we found out recently that I think you should know. Blofeld –”

“Oberhauser,” Bond automatically corrects.

“Whatever his name was, he’s dead.”

Bond blinks. “That fast?”

“He had some infection from that large cut on his eye – rather anticlimactic. I thought you should know.” Tanner licks his lips and calls over the waiter to refill his glass. “And in case it was on your mind – SPECTRE wasn’t in charge of _all_ your missions. There were plenty you did yourself.”

“Have you been talking to the psychologist?” Bond asks.

Tanner rolls his eyes. “Maybe I’m just very nice and understanding and I thought you needed to hear that.”

“Right, well, now that it’s off your conscience…” Bond gets up and starts to turn away when Tanner adds, “Sunday.”

“What’s on Sunday?”

“Q’s birthday.”

“Really?” Bond asks, trying not to sound too interested, but Tanner already has a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

“Try to finish that mission report by then, will you? You don’t want to miss the party.”

Bond rolls his eyes and walks back to his table, and, loathe he may be to admit it, he feels a lot better now.

* * *

He makes one final stop before London: Montenegro.

Not much seems to have changed, and he doesn’t even have to check into the hotel under a fake name because there’s new management who apparently have no idea of the events that occurred several years ago.

He doesn’t get the same room, of course, because that would be all too cliché, but it looks similar enough, and he spends the night thinking about Vesper and how he should’ve saved her.

Then he thinks, she would’ve forgiven him, and maybe it’s time to stop blaming himself for her choice.

He gets on a plane to London the next day.

* * *

Q’s flat is miraculously easy to break into – he’ll have to give the man a few pointers when he returns from work – and Bond makes himself at home, preparing a cup of tea as a cat rubs against his legs.

“I wonder if you’re Tesla or Harrison,” he says aloud, bending down to scratch behind the cat’s ear. It purrs and nuzzles against his hand.

Bond’s still in the kitchen, holding the cat up with one arm and the tea with the other, when he hears the jingle of keys as the door opens. He briefly wonders why he didn’t spend more time going over his looks when he hears Q call out, “I’m home,” and the cat lets out a loud mewl.

“Oh god, Tesla, are you stuck in one of the cabinets again?” Q groans as he enters the kitchen. His eyes widen suddenly and he stops at the entrance. “Bond. You’re – you’re _here_.”

“I am,” Bond agrees. “You need better security in your flat.”

“And _you_ need to tell people you’re coming over instead of just breaking into their flats,” Q retorts.

“It’s more fun this way,” he says, putting the cat down. He looks at Q and smiles. “I hope I’m not too late to be invited to the birthday party tomorrow.”

“My birthday’s not for another month,” Q says. “Besides, tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Is it?” Dammit, he’s going to _kill_ Tanner.

“Yes, it is,” Q responds, biting back a smile.

“I see,” Bond says. “In any case, I have a mission report to write about the whole SPECTRE business and…”

“And?”

He doesn’t know why he’s hesitating. “…And I was wondering if you would like to help me over some dinner.”

Q looks at him for a few moments before nodding. “That sounds. Nice.”

Bond smiles back. “Excellent. We should invite Harrison too.”

“I don’t think they allow cats in most fine dining establishments,” Q rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t talking about the cat.”

“I change my mind – I never want to see your face again,” Q says, but he’s smiling and Bond’s smiling too, and he thinks that, maybe, he should reconsider killing Tanner.

He was right -  he didn’t want to miss this.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from _Tides_ by The xx  
>  There may or may not be a sequel soon


End file.
